


Ignite

by say_im_good



Category: VIXX
Genre: Angst, M/M, Slow Build, angst angst angst, angst up the wall, delusional processing to somewat normal events, hakyeon thinks fire is alive, maybe too poetic???, poetic wording, pyromaniac hakyeon, setting fires to cover the feelsies, taekwoon thinks hakyeon is beautiful, whiny taekwoon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-04 07:51:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10986633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/say_im_good/pseuds/say_im_good
Summary: "It was two am and the world was black, when Hakyeon created light."





	1. It's Dead Here

Watching the world through the distorted haze that lingers above an open flame. 

   
Crunched in the alley between the bar and the market, the wind heard but not felt, denied by the high walls, he stared at the small plastic object in his hand, twirling it slowly between each finger. It was cold, it was dark, the wailing of the wind and the distant sirens, the rush of vehicles on the highway nearby; He wondered why it hurt.  
   
It was two am and the world was black, when Hakyeon created light. The flame flickered from the small lighter, a quick spark before he could see his calloused fingers in the glow radiating from his hands. He felt empty, he felt void, but along with these things he felt attached to this small light. The newspaper laid inanimate and dull in a crumple at the toes of his steel-toed boots, and he felt an emotionless curiosity come to life with a spark inside of him. He felt simple like this, like the world around him was nothing if he couldn’t see it, like if this tiny light couldn’t reach it, it didn’t exist.  
   
He lowered the lighter slowly, ceremoniously, careful as if the newly born flame would sputter out in fear if he moved too quickly. It was a strong flame, this one, and he smiled at it, encouraged it. And with too little hesitance he fed it, the newspaper crinkling as the flame in its new confidence grew and grew, swallowing down the paper, turning it black, dissolving it. And as he watched his creation become more powerful, storming through its short life, the emptiness caving in his gut was filled with the hot air released. A temporary fix.  
   
It ate and ate until there was nothing left to eat, fizzling, staining the ground beneath it, sending occasional trickles of smoke upwards to dissolve into the open sky. And as the last few sparks licked away at the dirt and ash on the ground, he stood with a clear mind and renewed strength, able to breathe again.  
   
The tardy bell rang on Monday morning with a fervor that echoed a mocking nag. The hallway was empty as the last hustle of students had already ran to their classes. He wondered why he was the only one who didn’t care if he was late, but figured that would change soon enough. Kids were always inspired at the beginning of the school year, stocking up on highlighters and designed spirals that they’d never use, things he once did as well before he realized early that he’d never be a good student and there was no use attempting to be.  
   
His steps were slow and, rather than rebellious, they were simply tired. Later in the year there would be teachers and hall monitors snapping at him to hurry, counting the seconds aloud as if radiating anxiety onto a large group of teenagers was the correct way of convincing them to follow orders. Hakyeon couldn’t help but to not care because he realized his privilege; The worst they could do here was send him to the office, call his mother. And calling her wouldn’t result in anything more than uncomfortable. There would be no major consequences for doing anything until he turned eighteen. He wondered why he was even here now.  
   
Things would be much more complicated once he graduated, and he didn’t look forward to the looming demand of responsibility. He’d move out, there was no way his mother would house him any longer without burdening him with the constant rundown that he lived to avoid. He’d get a job, work his ass off to pay bills, live paycheck to paycheck with no improvement because there was no time for college and not enough money to save. To say the least, he didn’t have much faith in the future.  
   
Soon enough, after an argument over whether he should slow down or even just walk off campus entirely, he reached the door to his designated classroom and flung it open, walking in with his eyes cast forward, not minding the stares that hovered on his person from thirty or so students and a motherly looking woman that was too old to be anything besides a teacher. It would be a long day, but maybe he’d leave after third period. His body felt stiff as he lowered himself into one of the few remaining empty seats, laying his head down on the desk, giving a soft, distant nod as the teacher asked if he was Cha Hakyeon. They were still staring and he didn’t mind it a single bit, soaking in the attention that he rarely received elsewhere, not being any form of a star student, any form of talented, or any form of even wanted. The gentle weight in his pocket was what kept him rooted to his seat. Tonight, he decided, he’d relax with it tonight.  
   
The stars were barely visible under the city lamps, the ones that towered overhead. He always tried to find somewhere dull, cast in shadows, alleys or subways. The light he created was always more capable of bloom in places like these. His light was pure, was natural, unlike the yellow splatter scattered around the streets, dotting every few feet in a disgusting wash of artificial illumination. People were afraid of the dark so they created a fake release, and people were afraid of fire so they stitched this false comfort with electricity instead. But Hakyeon wasn’t afraid of his own creations, they comforted him, from birth to death and every moment in between.  
   
It was eleven pm and the world was black, when Hakyeon created light.  
   
The house was quiet, always sickeningly so, a quiet that felt lifeless rather than tired, a quiet that was only amplified by how void of warmth the place was. Leather couches and small decorations, sparkling wooden floors and plain grey walls. His mother appreciated the idea of a model home, a place that people gasp at in awe when they enter, a place that would appear to the poor as a building in which a rich woman would thrive in. It was fake, it was all fake, and in that fakeness it was dull, the cleanliness of the large house stale, the accents of blue and red to bring in some color seeming pitiful in comparison to the monotones that surrounded them. The moment he stepped foot in he wanted to leave, but that was normal, and without a sound he swiped the lock closed behind him. 

His room was upstairs, to the right, down a short hallway. It was fake as well, but less so, and despite how cold it step felt, it was his haven in this greyscale, lifeless atmosphere. Ashen blue walls that appeared grey to the passing observer, scattered bedsheets and a line of cheap, but lovingly aged candles on the window. This wasn’t home, but it was the closest to a home that he would ever get if the darkness where he created light didn’t count as a physical place. He laid back on the cold, stale blankets, stared up at the dull white ceiling, gently eased his most prized possession from his pocket and flicked his finger along the metal wheel atop it. The lighter flickered to life, and the flame it birthed was smaller than usual. He could practically hear it gasping for oxygen, flickering just barely. He understood, this place suffocated him as well. For sake of mercy on his creation, he pulled his thumb from the red lever that released the gas.


	2. It's Cold

Watching the world through the distorted haze that lingers above an open flame.   
My hands to my sides, my overcast eyes, I’m looking for an escape. 

 

   
The world was painted in shades of black and blue. Black ice on black asphalt, black cars skidding around like tornadoes since the small town wasn’t at all used to a freezing temperature. Black hair and black eyes; The blue was from the inside. Jung Taekwoon wasn’t an ordinary case, but neither was he an extraordinary one, which left him in the desolate middle as a kid with a sob story that wasn’t quite tear-jerking enough to convince the public to pity rather than scorn him.   
   
He was once popular, just once, very recently in fact. But sob stories aren’t just folders skewed away, closed books for later recollection, they’re ongoing tragedies, and Taekwoon had lost most hope that his would ever conclude. To say the least, he was afraid of contact, afraid of love (no matter how he’d keep searching for it), and had a victim mentality so vast that even he knew clearly of it.   
   
‘I hate this world, this world that hates me,’ he’d whimper to his rampant mind on the bad nights, strewn away in the sleek tunnel of the playground that was built solely for drug deals and places for teens to hover when the lights on their porches were out. It was always cold, it was always dark, the sky black when he laid here and blue when he rose and he always seemed to miss the colors in between that passed by so quickly.  
   
Yes, Taekwoon had a sob story, but it was locked too far from his lips for him to release it from where it rested tight between his ribs or orbited his brain, obscuring all of his more comfortable reasoning. And he only felt guilty when someone would come around, hoping to pick the lock to his heart and eventually exiting with blistered fingers and bent wires, so he pushed them away. No one in this town wanted to try anymore, and despite how the loneliness scraped and shredded the flesh of his insides, he preferred to suffer alone than to drag someone into the pit to cry with him.  
   
No one wanted to try anymore, and he was as fine with that as he’d ever probably be with anything in a world of blacks and blues and no warmth that lasted longer than a passing text or an occasional song that would be worn by the next day and abandoned.   
   
But everything would change soon, and everything changing was a terrifying concept to someone who was too afraid of change to even try a new cereal or take a step towards a supposedly faster route home from school. His father had fought day in and day out for a higher paying job in the city, but Taekwoon had nestled in the comfort of the once thought reality that the man would never succeed. He learned quickly that dreams fell short, and the ‘I’m happy for you’ was trembling and dull.   
   
Because the city was busy, the city was vast, the city was all consuming with buildings that blocked out the sky as it faded from blues to blacks. And he wasn’t fond of his small town despite knowing his way around, but the city was so much worse.   
   
Hakyeon always swore that he wasn’t fond of his mother. She worked and worked everyday, and then she complained every night. “You don’t need to work so much, we’re doing just fine.” “If it hurts, rest. You need to rest.” She soaked up the advice and wrung it out down the same bathroom drain that Hakyeon would spill the alcohol towards. Around customers her smile was so tightly wound, her voice was full of the enthusiasm that she had no room for amongst her work and her tears. But the makeup would come off and the act would spill apart the second she’d enter the house.   
   
Because what good was giving advice to someone who was addicted to their pain? It would be like dousing an alcoholic with just one last drink (she always swore it, last drink of the night) every time they cried (and he’d always, always find her sipping away at another). When he wouldn’t listen anymore, she’d have the phone balanced between her shoulder and her ear, makeup running, sobs just loud enough that he’d be able to hear clearly down the hall as his struggling mother suffered without his support.   
   
Hours of labor and no food in the fridge, it never added up, did it…? Limping down the stairs and strutting out the door, it never made much sense. She went on about how hard she worked to provide, but he lived on instant noodles while she spent hours she swore she never had to spare with tall men and hundred dollar meals. Everyone loved a good sob story, and she was quick to deliver despite the fact that the story was almost entirely fictional. And her tales earned her pats on the back, hugs in the late hours of the night, her tales that starved her child of the affection and attention that she sucked up from any source that provided.

It was five pm and the world was blue when Hakyeon created light. He slammed the door when he left this time and knew for a fact rather than a choice that she would be asleep before he returned. He didn’t need his Japanese spiral anyway, he never did well in that class, and unlike his mother he’d always prioritize his creations over his own gain. The flame swallowed the scribbled, dirtied pages eagerly, and he apologized with a quick breath for letting it get so hungry. The metal wiring that bound the notebook scalded but wasn’t suited for the fire’s appetite, and Hakyeon found himself burning tiny stripes onto the back of his hand, tears in his eyes and the heat coating his face so comfortably within the cold world.

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posted on AFF


End file.
